Out Of The Night That Covers Me
by Ellie 5192
Summary: Jack head-piece, set during the original Stargate movie, oneshot. He's here to die. It's that simple. But he's not so sure anymore. And maybe, just maybe, his blue skies, mosquitoes and fishing rod can help him forget why he never wanted any of it at all.


Jack is a man who knows exactly why he's here, even if no-one else does. He's here to die. He is a man on a massive suicide mission, disguised as a good and loyal soldier. That's it. It's that simple.

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_Set during the original Stargate Movie, right near the end, when the bomb's counting down and the truth about Jack finally comes out. A little head piece I wrote while waiting for my Business Law lecture to start. I am still working on Weaveth Steadily, don't worry, it's on its way. There was a post that greatly inspired this piece, which I randomly found on the internet. Interesting read, if you're so inclined- /title/The+consolation+of+imaginary+things+is+not+imaginary+consolation_

_Enjoy, and please let me know what you think._

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Loss is actually a funny thing, Jack's decided. When you think about it. It expects you to go through it's five stages almost as though performing a well-rehearsed play- the anger, denial, bargaining, and finally the acceptance- the dénouement to the dramatic climax that is glass-smashing, depressive-mornings, all-encompassing grief.

It's such a cliché that it really should be banned- outlawed and refused entrance into the human psyche. After all, who said acceptance had to come last? Why couldn't it be one of those backwards narratives- accept the loss and have all the messy stuff come after? Have the kicking and screaming come second? Better yet, why not just not have grief at all? After all, what does it achieve besides wasted Kleenex or smashing a window or two? Not that he's going around smashing windows. Not this time, anyway.

No, this is a special brand of grief- another league altogether. If he's being honest, which he hardly ever is anymore, he's not even sure he's going to get past Stage 1 of this 'Dealing With Loss for Dummies' handbook. Not when the anger is so powerful- when his trusty Simpson's and beer just don't cut it anymore- when the pictures on the wall and the smell of gunpowder hurt more than a slew of bullets to raw muscle.

No, he doesn't think this loss will fade- this overwhelming need to self-destruct.

Which is why when the truth finally comes out- when the wide-eyed, innocent academic is looking at him like he may have just lost his mind, Jack is surprised by a stirring somewhere between his sternum and his windpipe, like someone's compressing his breastbone. And it takes him a while, but he comes to identify it as shame, which is odd because, after all, didn't he take this job because even _he_ could recognise the never-ending numbness as the loss of something fundamental to the whole 'living' idea?

But then words- a phrase- like a distant drumbeat, echo in his head and, for the first time in a long time, he thinks they might be right- they might apply to him.

'_These people here ____**don't want to die**__**. **____**It's a shame you**__**'**____**re**__ in such a hurry to.'_

And maybe he's not quite ready yet for the real world that waits completely unaware. Maybe he's got so far to go that it might just take him the rest of his life- however long that may be.  
But the shame he feels- the niggling of guilt he feels at having condemned these men to his fate- must mean _something_; must mean that human life, even his own life, still has value. And, could it be- is it possible- that it means he's not as willing to die as he thought he was?

It's not a nice feeling, or something to be proud of, but the fact is, it's a _feeling_- something he hasn't experienced in a damn long time, and it's foreign and strange and if he's being honest (again) a little unwelcomed. But it's there. And that _does_ mean something. And he's thinking long-term, which is also kind of new and strange, and though he won't go so far as to say he feels better about himself, he also feels no worse, which in the grand scheme of his life is a minor miracle.

Which means that for the first time since the accident, Jack is scared. Scared of what it might mean if they actually manage to get out of this one alive and in one piece, which would also be a miracle. Because for the first time since the accident he cares about something, and even if he could still go through with the suicide plan (which he's not so sure about anymore) he wouldn't- couldn't- do that to these men, so full or life as they are, because he couldn't live with himself for it- an irony he doesn't fail to miss.

But all of this brings him a million dollar question- How the hell is supposed to start living after waiting so long to die? He'd be the first to admit that he's not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he does possess certain cleverness when coming up with ways to self-destruct- an atomic bomb would do the trick. So then, how the hell does he reconcile this new-found value for life with the long-term plans he's laid in motion? How does he transfer this cleverness to the land of the living?

And then there's the fear in Daniel's eyes- the gripping, overwhelming fear of a boy made to act as a soldier, and Jack knows he's feeling it too, and _that_ surprises him because this is _not_ his first picnic and surely a man waiting to die would fear nothing.

And yet here he is, this unexpected affirmation of the immediacy of his own existence pressing in on him, and he knows he has to finish this because, if nothing else, he has the Simpson's to catch up on when he gets home and a six pack of Guinness to polish off and, hopefully (another foreign word) a successful mission report to write up before handing in his retirement papers.

And maybe, just maybe, his blue skies, mosquitoes and fishing rod can help him forget why he never wanted any of it at all.

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_Whatcha think?_


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